


nature and all of its grand, beautiful forces

by kickedshins



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Found Family, Friendship, Gen, Holidays, Season/Series 01, not that buffy needs it joyce is great but like, some one-sided buffywillow, willow and xander sure as hell need it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:55:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28035774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kickedshins/pseuds/kickedshins
Summary: Out of nowhere, Xander pulls Willow backward into a hug.“Oof!” she wheezes, midsection squashed by Xander’s embrace. “Xander, what’s that about!”“Nothin’,” he says, resting his chin on top of her head. “I just love you.”His arms are comforting, encircling her waist, warm and solid, and she thinks that maybe she could live like this forever. She wants to bottle the feeling of safety that her friends give her, wants to feel this secure all the time. Sometimes it’s hard to be Willow as she is, Willow with her long hair always in her face and her too-quiet voice and her fifteen-year-old insecurities, but the two of them– well, Xander and Buffy make it a little bit easier.orBuffy, Willow, and Xander celebrate the winter holidays during Buffy's first year in Sunnydale.
Relationships: Xander Harris & Willow Rosenberg & Buffy Summers
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	nature and all of its grand, beautiful forces

**Author's Note:**

> happy chanukah! jewish author writing jewish characters here and wishing willow's judaism was more prevalent in the show itself. not at all a chanukah fic but also not at all a christmas one. just these three having a grand old friendship time and being a family :,) also this was my first time writing s1 and holy shit it is such an experience to write them in s1. Such an experience.
> 
> anyway i was just hit with the desire to write a short little thing about willow and xander having holiday traditions with each other and caring more abt that than abt whatever they do with their less than fantastic families and this fell out of me. also i have no clue when anyone's birthday is other than buffy so i made xander 16 for the convenience of legally being able to drive. enjoy!

“So,” Xander asks between algebra problems, “holiday thoughts?”

“Not many,” Willow answers, confused. “Opposed to the commercialism and prevalence of Christmas, even though I know it makes sense demographically for Sunnydale—and America, I guess—to not really give a damn about any other winter holidays. Fond of getting presents, and also of latkes. Generally an enjoyer of Christmas music. Why d’ya ask?”

Xander ceases his incessant pencil-twirling and leans over the table to get closer to Willow, and her pulse jumps less at his new proximity but more at his sudden movement. “No,” he says, “I mean what about Buffy.”

This doesn’t really help with Willow’s confusion, because _Buffy_ and _holidays_ are not something she associates in her mind, mostly because Buffy’s never been around for what Christians hegemonically and faux-placatingly refer to as ‘Holiday Season’ before. “I assume she, like the majority of our blonde peers, celebrates Christmas?”

“ _No_ ,” Xander says again, a bit exasperated. “I mean are you inviting her to our– y’know, our thing.”

“Oh,” Willow says, and then, “Oh! I hadn’t even thought of that. I mean, I would love to, as long as you’re alright with it?”

Xander sits back down—when had he gotten out of his seat? Jesus, Willow’s really dropped the ball on being attuned to his every motion since Buffy showed up, which is honestly probably a good thing, but it’s also a weird thing, because Xander’s been the central focus of her life for way too long, and now she has two foci, and maybe she wants to become her own third? It’s too much to think about at half-past three in the afternoon—with a smile. “I wouldn’t be asking if I wasn’t okay with it, Wil. Also, it’s, like, your thing, you know? So it’s more up to you than it is to me.”

“It’s not _my thing_ ,” Willow laughs, rolling her eyes. “It’s your thing, too. We’ve been doing this for long enough that it’s your thing, too. Plus, it might take place on the second night of Chanukah, but we watch the little Rudolph movie, so it’s multicultural enough.”

“Great, glad to know you’re considerate of us Jesus-loving folk,” Xander says.

“Kinda have to be,” Willow shrugs. “It’s impossible to escape you, no matter how many times you historically try to run us out.”

“Aw, as if you’d ever wanna leave me,” Xander chides, tapping the back of her hand with his pencil. “Now, okay, what the hell is factoring. Am I supposed to know what factoring is? Also, what’s a polynomial?”

“Ever wanna leave you indeed,” Willow says dryly, but nonetheless she gets up and walks around to his side of the table with her notebook in hand. “Xander, I don’t mean this in a mean way, but do you pay attention in math? Like, have you done it even once?”

“I try?” he says, except it comes out sounding a lot more like a question than it does a statement. “It’s just– okay, look,” he starts, pushing back his chair and turning to gaze up at Willow. “It’s really boring. It’s hard for me to get into stuff I think is boring.”

A pause.

“Is that…. is that it?” Willow asks. “I really thought you were gearing up to launch into some anti-math tirade. Like, oh, _math_ , what with its funny numbers, and using letters instead of the funny numbers, and _I don’t know what ‘i’ means outside of the context of myself,_ and—”

“Wil!” Xander interjects. He grabs her hands, pulling them down from where they’d been caught up in gesturing in vaguely Xander-esque ways. “Willow, I get it.”

“Cool,” Willow says. She perches herself on the table, legs kicking beneath her, just barely not colliding with Xander’s shins. “Also, sorry, that was a bit much.”

“It’s fine,” he shrugs. “It was accurate, so. I’m the dumb one, I’ve made my peace with that. I contribute to the group in a plethora of other ways.”

Before Willow can say anything other than a murmured _nice use of the word ‘plethora’_ , a voice from the doorway says, “Aw, Xander, don’t sell yourself short. You’re doing better than I am in history.”

“Hey, Buf!” Willow says, perking up a bit. Hopefully Buffy will be enough of a distraction to Xander that he won’t want her to drill algebra with him anymore. She loves algebra, and she loves Xander, but in the same way that combining chocolate and chicken fingers probably wouldn’t taste good, sometimes it’s best to leave two well-enoughs very, very alone.

“I’m doing better than you are in history because I actually show up to class,” Xander counters. “Also, I cheat off of Willow.”

“Keep your voice down,” Buffy instructs. “This is a school library, you know. Giles could write you off for cheating.”

“Giles is literally making out with Ms. Calendar behind the school or something.”

“Giles is _so_ not doing that, because if he was doing that, I would puke my guts out. He’s too old to make out with anyone.”

“Giles is—”

“Can we go back to the cheating thing?” Willow interrupts. “Xander, what the hell? You cheat off of me?”

“Shit, were you not intentionally angling your quizzes towards me?”

“Jesus Christ,” Willow groans.

“Speaking of which!” Xander says, beckoning for Buffy to come closer.

“Speaking of Jesus?”

“Yeah, speaking of Jesus,” Xander says in a very _duh_ tone of voice. “Wil and I were just wondering what your plans were for the holidays."

Buffy leans against the table, and Willow’s between her and Xander, and it’s marginally stressful because now her attention has to be split and she’s not entirely sure where best to delegate it, but when Buffy starts talking it’s impossible to look away from her, even with Xander’s hand on Willow’s knee.

“I mean, my dad’s Jewish,” Buffy says, and Willow tries—and fails—to cover a tiny gasp at that. “So I am, too.”

“He is?” Xander says. And then, “You don’t look it.”

“Pretty sure you’re not supposed to say shit like that,” Buffy tells him. “Like, Cordelia would say shit like that.”

“Ugh,” Xander shudders. “She would, wouldn’t she. Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Buffy waves him off. “I’m not, like, religious. In either direction. Mom and I go to church on Easter and Christmas, and that’s it. If I’m at Dad’s for the weekend over Chanukah he breaks out the menorah. It’s mostly just an excuse to give me crappy gifts that maybe would have been pertinent to who I was a few years ago, but are now just a great way to practice my acting and my _wow, thank you so much!_ face.”

“Yikes,” Xander says.

“Indeed,” Buffy agrees. “But, yeah, I don’t really have a strong affiliation one way or another. Like, Christmas dinner with Mom is great, and she actually gives me really sweet stuff, but I’m positive nothing’s gonna top the fancy new crossbow I’m hoping Giles springs for.”

“You should make him get you more stuff,” Xander says. “For the Jewish part of you.”

“Mmm, yeah, I always wanted to be a stereotype,” Buffy says. “Greedy, greedy!”

“That’s– guys, we’re getting off-track,” Willow cuts in. “Buf, it’s great that you’re Jewish. Xander, you… Oh, Xander.”

“I’m feeling like that was less a good _oh, Xander_ and more a shut-the-fuck-up _oh, Xander_ .”

“Your intuition amazes me daily,” Willow tells him sweetly.

He gives her a thumbs up and a smile, and dammit, Willow can’t help but give him one in return.

“So, the holidays?” Buffy asks.

“Right,” Willow says, turning towards Buffy. “Xander and I have this tradition every year on the second night of Chanukah where we have a joint Christmas-Chanukah celebration, no matter how far apart the two holidays fall. We go to whoever’s house is free—when we were younger, it was a coordinated thing, and our parents would have to bring us, but we just acted like it was a regular playdate, y’know? Didn’t need them knowing we were building our own, like, family traditions, as ridiculous as that sounds, ahaha—and we make latkes and eat jelly donuts and watch _Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer_.”

“That’s super cute,” Buffy says.

“Hell yeah it is,” Xander agrees. “So we were wondering if you wanted to come with, if you’re free?”

“Oh, jeez,” Buffy says, putting her hands up. “I so don’t want to intrude if it’s your guys’ whole best friends thing.”

“Come off it,” Xander groans. He gets up out of his chair, patting Willow’s leg as he goes, and slings an arm around Buffy. “You’re one of the gang, now, aren’t you? I mean, we’ve done straight-up murder together. What’s letting you see me flounder in the kitchen compared to that?”

“We– Xander, we have not done _straight-up murder together_ ,” Willow frets. “Vampires are _different_.”

“Yeah, but it’s cooler to say it’s killing things.”

“It’s, like, really not,” Willow sighs, head in her hands.

“It’s, like, really not,” Buffy seconds. “But sure. If you guys really don’t mind me busting in, I’d be happy to come.”

“Great,” Willow says, giving her a broad, uneven grin, and for that moment it’s just the two of them in the library, Buffy and Willow and a maze of books so much less confusing than the way Willow’s heart twists in her chest when Buffy reciprocates her smile. “I’ll get potatoes and presents for three this year.”

  
  


A few days later, when Willow's unloading a drove of potatoes onto a counter in a house that feels too large for the three people who imitate living in it, she thinks that places aren't meant to be like this. She thinks that a family should fill the space it occupies, should fill it snugly, should fill it right. 

It's hard to do that here. It's difficult when her mom floats and her dad's a weird mix of overbearing and never there, and Willow wants to be seen so bad, wants to be understood, and she's realized that she's not going to get that from her parents, but it still kind of blows to remember. She’s a square peg in a circle hole at school; at home, she’s more of a discarded Lego that’s rolled underneath the fridge.

And she thinks that places shouldn't feel as small as Xander's house, either. It's too stuffy, overcrowded even though the same amount of people live there as in Willow’s house, loud as hell. It makes her skin itch, makes her want to crawl out of her own body, and she’s not even the person who lives there. It’s as if it was made for the express purpose of preventing people from breathing, whereas her house was made for the express purpose of making people hyperaware of each inhale and exhale.

Anyway, she thinks that places shouldn't be like her home, and they shouldn't be like Xander's, either. She thinks that they're two-thirds of a Goldilocks myth, and Buffy, her hair an apt color, is the "just right". Which, okay, seems kind of ridiculous, because it's not as if Willow felt like her life was lacking in any way before Buffy, and—

No, that's not true, because damn, doesn't she want to feel like she's got enough in her life? Sometimes Willow feels like she's adrift in an ocean, and she's got Xander, sure, but clinging to only one piece of driftwood is not at all a tenable way to survive.

And it's not that she's codependent, or anything. It's just that Buffy makes her days a bit brighter. Willow's not typically one for breaking schedules, and she certainly values order, but there's a certain kind of fun that comes with the insanity and disarray that comes with Buffy.

Buffy's a fucking hurricane, honestly, and who is Willow to question nature and all of its grand, beautiful forces? Willow’s just a girl. She’s not about to reverse any tides or turn winds. She’s certainly no Chosen One.

Her train of thought is cut off by Xander letting himself into the house, He’s got a spare key to her place (he sometimes sneaks out of his place and sleeps on her floor, and also they’re best friends and spend enough time at each others’ houses that it seems kind of silly for him _not_ to have one), and she’s got one to his, too (she does the same).

“Hey,” he calls from somewhere beyond the kitchen. She can’t see him, but she knows he’s slipping off his shoes, throwing his light jacket—less for the relatively non-existent California cold and more for his love of wearing as many shapeless layers as possible—over the spare chair sitting in the hallway, walking on the carpet in his mismatched socks and delighting in the feeling under his feet, something that he’s still obsessed with even after, like, ten years of walking on her carpet.

“Hey! C’mere, I need a hand with these potatoes, they’re really rolly.”

“I mean, they’re round,” he says, entering. “I feel like you coulda assumed that as a given.”

“They’re not round,” she corrects. “They’re… oh, I dunno, oblong? They’re oblong.”

“Well, sure, some of them are long,” Xander agrees. “Some of them—” he holds up a fat little potato “—are kinda short, though.”

Willow resists the urge to smash her head against the kitchen counter. “That’s not what oblong means, but I applaud the effort.”

Xander busies himself with picking up any potatoes that had fallen to the floor during Willow’s bout of introspection, during which she was not paying any mind to their whereabouts. “So, what are your parents doing tonight?” he asks.

“They’re in, uh, I don’t know. San Diego? Maybe? They’re visiting family. Having their own second night of festivities.” She picks up a few potatoes from the counter. “I’m gonna start washing these, ‘kay? You can pat ‘em dry when I’m done. Also, grab the peeler, it should be with the forks and stuff, and you know where the bowls are, so get one of those, too.”

“You get so sure of yourself in the kitchen,” Xander observes.

“Careful where you’re going with that.”

“That is so not what I meant,” Xander says defensively. “This was not a sexism thing, I swear. I love women.”

“Just get the damn peeler, alright?” Willow laughs.

Xander gets the damn peeler. “I just mean you’re very sure of yourself when you’re in charge sometimes. And this is one of those times.”

“Oh,” Willow says, taken aback. She’s never really thought of herself as the assertive, in-control type. She’s never even imagined she could be _sure of herself_.

“Yeah,” Xander says. “Stuff like this, and teaching me schoolwork, and, y’know, computers.” He waves a hand around vaguely to emphasize his point, except the hand is holding the peeler, and Willow’s thankful he’s standing where he’s standing, because a few feet closer and he could have accidentally peeled her arm. “You just sorta get in the zone. I don’t know.”

“Oh,” Willow says again, because apparently that’s the only noise she’s capable of making right now. 

“Anyway. You got any potatoes ready for me?”

Willow shakes her head, a few strands of hair falling out of her ponytail and fluttering around her face. “Right, yes, sorry, yeah. Lemme get on that.”

“No rush,” Xander says. “I’m early.”

“Uncharacteristic,” Willow notes, running the first potato under the water.

“Yeah, well. My parents started talking about Christmas plans, and I did not want to be there for that, like, even a little bit, so here I am. Also, you know you’re crazy for washing the potatoes, right? We peel them. We don’t eat the part of the potato that you are washing.”

“Just in case!” Willow insists. And then about a minute too late, she realizes that Xander—who is her crush, Jesus, she’s gotta get her act together—complimented her about how good she is at handling herself in situations he himself is terrible with, told her that she was _sure of herself_ , told her that that was a good thing, and she didn’t even thank him. So she says, “Also, thanks.”

Xander looks up from where he’s fiddling with the peeler in a frankly semi-dangerous way. “What for?”

Willow’s shoulders tense uncomfortably into something that’s sort of like a shrug. “Saying I’m good with this stuff?”

He stares at her like she’s grown an extra head. “Yeah, Wil. You are.”

“Cool,” she says. “Okay, here, you can start in on peeling this one. Did Buffy tell you what time she’d be over?”

“Not sure,” Xander replies. He’s a bit of a beast with the peeler. Willow’s a much better cook—she’s pretty damn good at it, actually, even if she usually sticks to making and eating the same few things—but Xander’s not half-bad himself. He’s a lot worse at staying tidy, though, which is a skill Willow has all but mastered in her years of making meals for herself while her parents are out. Xander’s seemed to focus more on coming up with new and inventive ways to spice up microwavable cup noodles, because even though he’s fine at cooking, he always complains about how long it takes.

And, really, it’s not as if he has other things to do other than, like, play video games, or pretend he knows how to play more than two chords on his shitty guitar that so sorely needs to be restrung, but Willow’s not one to judge. Cooking just isn’t for some people, that’s fine.

It’s nice to have him as a hand here, because the process goes a lot faster, and he lets her handle the actual cooking—she’d have a full-on conniption if she had to watch Xander Harris struggle with bubbling oil—and she likes talking to him. His voice fills the gaps in the kitchen, presses against the windows and into the cabinets, makes her house feel more like a home.

“Okay, well she told me that she was going to be around before sundown, so probably before 4:45?”

“Winter,” Xander sighs, shaking his head. “What the hell even is daylight savings?”

“You’re asking that rhetorically,” Willow says, “and you don’t want me to explain it to you.”

Xander bumps his hip against hers amicably. “You know me so well, Wil. Anyway, before sundown sounds good, she said to me she had some stuff to go over with Giles right after school, ‘cuz I offered to bring her over here with me.”

“You sure she wasn’t just letting you down gently?” Willow inquires. 

“Hey, meanie,” he pouts. “You got another potato to peel? I’m done with this one.”

She’s not sure why Xander’s crush on Buffy bothers her so much. Well, okay, that’s not true. She does get it. She has feelings for Xander, and so obviously it smarts to see him lust—because it’s not really _like_ , is it? Willow’s sure she appreciates Buffy for her personality and talents and the whipsmart things she says a million times more than Xander does, and Willow’s not even the one with a crush—for the new girl, especially when Willow’s been here the whole time. 

But she could have expected this. Has been expecting it for a bit, honestly. So why does she want so desperately for Buffy to keep saying no to him?

The water from the sink splashes against her rolled-up sleeve and she wrinkles her nose. “Ugh, that feels weird. Yeah, here, take this one,” she says, passing him a potato. 

“She really did have to go over some stuff with Giles,” Xander insists. “I walked her to the library, so.”

“Oh, so that’s what you were doing while I was out fretting over potatoes and onions?” Willow teases.

“Please,” he laughs. “As if you’d want me hindering your very important deliberations on which potatoes are the _right_ potatoes.”

“Some of them are wrong!” Willow almost-sort-of-shouts. “Sometimes the potatoes are not the right potatoes, okay? There’s some potato peculiarities percolating through the whole… oh, shoot, I can’t think of a p-word that means ‘group’.”

“Pod?” he supplies, smoothly taking another freshly-washed potato out of her outstretched hand.

“You complete me,” she says gratefully. 

He ruffles her hair, and she shrieks. “What the hell, Xander! You’re messing up my ponytail, and now you gotta wash your hands again before you touch food.”

“Worth it,” he says with a smile, and ruffles her hair again once more for good measure. “Also, since when did you start caring about your hair?”

“I don’t,” Willow says, rolling her eyes. She takes out her now-ruined ponytail and pulls it back up, and it’s a bit lumpy, because Willow—who is decidedly _not_ Cordelia Chase—is not the type of girl who knows how to put together a flawless ponytail without a mirror and at least five minutes of struggling. “I just don’t want my hair to fall into my latkes.”

“Fair,” he concedes. “Okay, do you wanna shred the potatoes now, or do the onions, or—”

He’s cut off by a knock at the door. Must be Buffy.

Willow hastily finishes her ponytail. “I’ll get that,” she says, and rushes to the front door in a mix between a walk and a run, ignoring Xander’s amused noises behind her.

Buffy’s backlit and haloed by the setting sun, her flyaways burnt gold. Distantly, Willow thinks that it’s nice to know that she’s not the only one with imperfect ponytails. It makes her feel a little less like an outsider.

“Hi,” Buffy says.

“Hey,” Willow says, and then, a second too late, “come on in.”

Buffy obliges. She slips off her cute red sneakers, leaving them by Xander’s ratty black converse. She’s wearing an off-white top and a baby blue skirt, and Willow wishes so desperately that she could pull off something like that. 

Not that she’d really be comfortable in it, necessarily; Willow’s always been more partial to overalls and pants, chunky sweaters and boyish tees. Her mom tells her that she needs to dress a little more appropriately, needs to show off the beauty that somehow snuck up on Willow without her mother realizing, and buys her dresses, and Willow’s not against them, really, but it’s a lot easier to run around a graveyard in pants than in a skirt. She has no idea how Buffy does it. She has no idea how Buffy’s so… well, Willow doesn’t have the words for it, but Buffy feels right in a way that Willow wants to understand, wants to hold in her hands. 

Buffy looks around. “Nice place,” she says. “Big.”

“And empty,” Willow agrees. “Gosh, this is the first time you’ve been here, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Buffy confirms. “It’s not… the type of place I thought would make someone like you.”

“What does that mean?” Willow asks. She takes Buffy’s wrist and starts to pull her towards the kitchen, and Buffy lets herself be towed along.

“I dunno,” Buffy says, and Willow can hear the mild pout in her voice. “Just that it feels stuffy in here. And, I mean, Wil, you can stick-up-your-ass with the best of them, but in a good way, you know? And this feels like a bad way. I guess I just mean you’re a lot more comfortable than your house is.”

“Huh,” Willow says, praying that she’s not as red as her hair. “Thanks?”

“Not that it’s a bad house,” Buffy is quick to backtrack. “Just that—”

“Nah, it’s a pretty shitty house,” Xander interjects. “Heya, Buf.”

Buffy pulls her arm out of Willow’s grasp to give Xander a little wave, and Willow has to clench her hand into a fist to stop her from reaching out for Buffy again. “Hi, Xander. You guys got started without me?” she asks, gesturing at the spread of potatoes.

“Yeah, sorry,” Willow apologizes. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Buffy reassures her. “I didn’t wanna keep you guys waiting at all. Okay, well, now that I’m here, what can I do to help?”

“You can start peeling onions,” Willow instructs. “Xander, you finish peeling that last potato and then quarter them. I’ll grab eggs and flour and oil, and we can go from there, alright? Oh, and Buffy, wash your hands before you start.”

“So commanding, isn’t she?” Xander says.

“I like it,” Buffy hums. “You know, on, like, the first night we went out to the Bronze together, I told her to seize the day, and that ended up being pretty terrible advice? Because she ended up seizing a vampire, which is, y’know, decidedly antithetical to _the day_. But, I mean, I’m glad she’s still doing it.”

“Hey!” Willow says, stamping her foot, which is a bit childish, but she’s okay with being a bit childish in front of them. “ _She_ is right here, thank you very much.”

“Yeah, and she’s always been like this when we’re cooking,” Xander laughs. “Also, Buffy, the onions are in the fridge probably.”  
Willow confirms both of his statements with a nod.

“So, I guess you guys have been doing this for a while. Onions, onions, where are the— oh, there they are. Anyway, yeah, tradition?”

“Tradition,” Willow confirms. “This is only the second year we’ve really done it alone, though.”

“What, your parents don’t have a fit that you—”

“Oh, they so would,” Willow says, feeling her face heat up a bit. “I mean, they trust Xander, though, and I say I’m at his place, and my parents never check with his parents, and besides, even if they did, his parents would—”

“My parents would probably just say yes to avoid confrontation, ‘cuz there’s enough of it in the house as is,” Xander says, rolling his eyes. 

“Xander, Jesus, throw out your peels before you start up on cutting the potatoes!”

“Sorry, Wil. Anyway, yeah, no, this is not strictly ‘allowed’—” Xander throws up air quotes, peeler in one hand and knife in another, and Willow has a brief, fleeting vision of the Slayer being taken down by an accidental flying projectile hurled by her very human friend “—but we’re not going to be found out.”

“Oh, yeah, my parents so don’t care enough,” Willow laughs.

“That’s…”

“I mean they do,” she’s quick to correct. “They’re, uh, overbearing. Jewish and neurotic. But only when they remember about me. And right now they’re in San Diego, so they’re not super focused on my whereabouts, obviously.”

“Okay,” Buffy says slowly. “I’m sorry about that.”

“It’s totally fine,” Willow waves her off breezily. “I mean, they’re kinda crazy sometimes, like I’m fifteen and I’m not allowed boys in my room, but Xander’s usually the exception, and besides I don’t know any boys other than him, so even if I wanted to bring them up and get, y’know, all, um, _illicit_ with them, I, uh, probably wouldn’t. Or couldn’t.”

“Still,” Buffy says. “They should care about you enough to give you freedom and also, like, know you.”

“Buffy, seriously,” Willow insists. “It’s okay. If we spent tonight talking about our families, you’d never get home.”

“Too true,” Xander agrees. “Families are a shitty topic. Let’s avoid ‘em.”

“Yeah,” Buffy sighs. She starts peeling the first onion, and it must be Slayer dexterity, because she gets the skin off in about two seconds. It takes a bit of a struggle for Willow to pull her eyes away from Buffy’s nimble fingers. “Well, I’m glad I’m here with you guys. This is, like, your millionth year of it, right? It’s cool that you invited me.”

“Oh, totally,” Willow is quick to say. “Xander, oh my goodness, grate the potatoes into a bowl, please, with a cheesecloth underneath it so that you can wring out the water afterward.”

“Of course,” he says dryly. “Fuck, what the hell was I thinking.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re a regular comedian. And, yes, Buffy, this is our… gosh, fifth year of doing this?”

“I don’t like my Christmas,” Xander explains, “and she doesn’t like her Chanukah, so we thought we should spend the holidays together. And like she said a few days ago, it used to be that one of our parents would bring us, and we just pretended we were hanging out together regularly, but now we’re old enough to do some good old-fashioned teenage espionage.”

“Yeah, there’s nothing cooler than sneaking around to watch _Rudolph_ and give your friend a gift wrapped in red and green instead of blue,” Willow jokes. 

“It’s sweet,” Buffy says. “Should I start chopping these onions? I wore waterproof mascara for the occasion. I’m a terrible cook, but I can sous chef with the best of ‘em.”

Willow feels a bit bowled over by the realization that, even if it’s just to direct the making of latkes, she’s the one in charge. Willow’s almost never the one in charge, and certainly almost never the one in charge of Buffy. It feels… weird. Certainly a shift in the dynamic. But Buffy’s a damn good helper, and maybe Willow could be a decent leader, too. Could grow into her own... what, power?

She snorts out loud at the thought of that. Yeah, right. The power of commandeering the kitchen.

“Everything good?” Buffy asks.

“Oh, yeah, no, totally. Just thought of something funny. And, yes, please start chopping the onions, that would be great.”

Making latkes is nice. It’s nice, and it’s easy, and Buffy burns every single latke she tries to make to a painful crisp, but Willow can’t say no when Buffy asks if she can try again. Xander’s got enough common sense to know that he’d probably set the house on fire if he tried, so that’s one less thing to worry about.

The latkes are done quickly, and this is not at all a tenable dinner, but it’s a nice snack. Willow sticks them in the oven to keep them warm while they finish cleaning up the kitchen. Xander’s familiar with where everything goes, but he’s a bit distractable and also just doesn’t like cleaning. Buffy’s the opposite—she’s happy to help, but she’s got no clue where anything is, and gets lost finding her way back from the bathroom. Still, though, it expedites the process, and besides, that’s not the point of all this. The point of all this is Willow has two best friends now, and she loves them more than words can say. She’s more than happy to direct Buffy to the proper cabinet for the third time in a row if it means Buffy’ll laugh at another one of her jokes.

When everything’s finished, they pile onto Willow’s bed with a plate of warm latkes between them, _Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer_ playing on the television. Willow’s seen this movie a million times, and she’s sure Buffy and Xander have each seen it a million more, but she doesn’t mind. It’s short and lovely, and she gets lost in the feeling of Xander braiding her hair and of braiding Buffy’s in turn. They’re a little train of giving, a trio of touch, reminding each other that they’re there and they’re friends and they’re alive—somehow, miraculously, through vampires and witches and the possessive spirits of hyenas, they’re all three of them alive. It’s a fucking Chanukah miracle.

“You’ve got great hair,” Willow murmurs to Buffy, soft enough that she’s not drowning out the movie.

Buffy, whose head is in Willow’s lap and whose hair is only halfway accessible because of that, says, “Thanks! You do, too. I could never pull off the red.”

“Aw, I think you’d rock it,” Willow tells her honestly. “You’d look good in pretty much anything, so.”

“Pfft. You’re just saying that.”

“Nah, I mean it!” Willow insists.

“She’s right,” Xander puts it, which is a touch frustrating, because it’s so not cool of him to jump onto her compliment, and then Willow thinks that maybe she’s being a shitty wingwoman, and then she thinks that maybe she _should_ be a shitty wingwoman, because why on Earth would she want to facilitate Buffy and Xander’s getting together?

“Thanks,” Buffy says. “And, I mean, Wil, you’d make a great blonde.”

“Oh, gee, you think so?”

“Know so,” Buffy says definitively. “I mean, I’m no Cordelia, but I can fashion guru pretty damn decently sometimes, so you can so totally more than take my word for that.”

“Blonde me,” Willow muses. “Imagine.”

“I’d have a less fun time braiding your hair,” Xander says. “If it was bleached. It gets a weird texture, right?”

“Wouldn’t know,” Willow says, throwing Xander’s hands off for a moment with a shrug. She relaxes into his touch when he starts back up on braiding her hair, though. It’s a comforting feeling. “My parents have obviously never let me dye my hair.”

“My hair’s a bit dyed,” Buffy admits. “And it doesn’t feel so crunchy, does it?”

“It doesn’t,” Willow reassures her. “It feels really, really soft.”

“Mmm,” Buffy sighs. “You know, you could make a living in head massages.”

“Oh, gosh, was I doing that? I’m so sorry!”

“Nah, it’s good, I like it,” Buffy says. “It’s really relaxing. This whole thing is really relaxing, you know? I mean, I obviously can’t take the whole night off, but it’s really great to just relax with you guys for a bit.”

“Of course,” Willow says, finding that her voice is strangely fierce and protective. “You’re– well, you’re part of the gang now, yeah? I mean, not that we really had _a gang_ , per se, but more that me and Xander were friends—”

“Xander and _I_ , Rosenberg, you’re slacking on your smarts!”

“—Xander, shut the hell up. Anyway, Buffy, it’s… well, I’m glad you moved to Sunnydale, is all.”

“Me, too,” Xander seconds, and then out of nowhere he pulls Willow backward into a hug.

“Oof!” she wheezes, midsection squashed by Xander’s embrace. “Xander, what’s that about!”

“Nothin’,” he says, resting his chin on top of her head. “I just love you.” 

His arms are comforting, encircling her waist, warm and solid, and she thinks that maybe she could live like this forever. She wants to bottle the feeling of safety that her friends give her, wants to feel this secure all the time. Sometimes it’s hard to be Willow as she is, Willow with her long hair always in her face and her too-quiet voice and her fifteen-year-old insecurities, but the two of them– well, Xander and Buffy make it a little bit easier.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Buffy says, pulling herself up and out of Willow’s lap. “You guys gotta let me in on this, too.”

“C’mere,” Willow says, jaw aching with a smile.

Buffy falls on top of her, sending her back into Xander and Xander back into the bed, and they’re a tangle of teenage limbs and laughter. Willow can feel Xander’s heart beating against her back, and she can feel Buffy’s breath against her neck, and she feels overwhelmed but in a good way. It’s nice to know her friends are here for her. It’s nice to feel like there’s no empty house beyond her room. It’s nice to feel loved.

After a minute, Willow somewhat reluctantly pushes Buffy off of her. “We’re supposed to be watching a movie, aren’t we.”

“Eh. I can quote parts of it by heart, probably,” Xander shrugs. He’s still lying down, his stupid patterned shirt taking up almost as much space as his starfished arms, his equally as stupid comic book t-shirt riding up just far enough that Willow can see a slice of his stomach. It’s a very sixteen-year-old boy stomach, she thinks.

“Really?” asks Buffy. She gets up and goes over to the little mirror over Willow’s desk, quickly brushing her hair out with her fingers, and Willow copies her quickly, undoing her own half-baked braid. 

“Oh, yeah,” Xander says. “I got a great Hermey impression, too. I—”

“Shoot!” Willow smacks her forehead with the palm of her hand, cutting Xander off before he can do the worst imitation of all time. “Shoot, I forgot the sufganiyot.”

“The what,” says Buffy.

“Jelly donuts,” Xander explains. “I can go out and get some if you want. I’m sure that coffee place near-ish by has ‘em.”

“You don’t mind?” Willow frets. “I just want to make sure that we do everything right, and not having sufganiyot is decidedly not right.”

“Totally fine,” Xander says. “Besides, it’s not like either of you could go.”

“I don’t even have my permit,” Buffy laughs. “Kinda hard to worry about stuff like that when there’s apocalypses to stop. Apocalypsii? I don’t know. Well, you know.”

“Thank you,” Willow tells Xander. “And drive safe, please!”

“Aw, Wil, you know me. I’m way too uncool to drive any way other than a solid three miles below the speed limit.” 

“True.”

Xander pushes himself off of the bed and straightens out his ugly button-up, which is quite possibly the dorkiest thing Willow’s ever seen him do until he gives the girls a little salute, and then _that’s_ the dorkiest thing Willow’s ever seen him do, which is saying a lot considering how long she’s known him. “Your knight in jelly donut armor will return posthaste, my lieges,” Xander says.

“Thank you, good sir,” Willow replies with the utmost seriousness. 

He takes care to close the door gently behind him, which is sweet. And then it’s just Buffy and Willow, and Willow doesn’t know why she feels so uneasy—or, no, not uneasy, just generally anxious—about the two of them being alone in her room. Probably because usually the only person Willow has in her room ever is Xander, and Xander’s familiar enough that she rarely has to worry about him.

“You wanna pause the movie?” Willow asks. “We can finish it when Xander gets back.”

“Sounds good to me,” Buffy says. 

Willow pauses the movie. And then there’s silence.

“So,” Willow starts. “You’re Jewish?”

Buffy laughs. “Yeah, well, like I said, barely. I mean, I’m barely Christian, too. It’s– you know how it is. More about the celebrations than the whole Jesus thing.”

“I mean, I’m zero percent about the whole Jesus thing, so you’re kinda beating me on that front.”

Buffy laughs again, louder, and Willow can feel something rising up in her stomach that feels almost like heat, almost like butterflies. This is– shit, this is the first time Willow’s had a female friend, isn’t it? It’s nice. She really likes it.

“True, true. But, yeah, I’m Jewish, I guess. A little. I dunno. It’s never really been part of my life? I mean, vampires are probably more important to me than organized religion, so, like.”

“That’s fair,” Willow says. “It’s nice, though. Being Jewish. And knowing that I have a Jewish friend.”

“You’ll have to tell me more about it sometime,” Buffy says softly. She rests her head against Willow’s shoulder, and Willow instinctively reaches up to pet Buffy’s hair.

“Mmm,” Willow agrees. “I will.”

And for a bit, that’s all they need. For a bit, Buffy’s a bird in Willow’s arms, something fragile and precious, something still learning how to fly. For a bit, Willow’s the fighter and Buffy’s her lady in the stands. She can take care of Buffy, she realizes, and Buffy can take care of her. And sure, Buffy’s way is a bit more direct, a bit more life-saving, but Willow doesn’t have to know how to throw a proper punch to be a steady foundation.

Buffy’s just a girl. And, yeah, so is Willow, but Buffy’s a girl trying to be a woman, trying to be a warrior, and doing a damn fine job of succeeding. She’s still a kid, though. She’s a kid, and she doesn’t deserve the stress that comes with being a Slayer. Willow’s sure if she spent a few more minutes combing through Buffy’s hair she’d find gray amidst the gold.

“Hey” Willow starts, voice twitchy and anxious, because _fuck_ , how could she ever express what she’s trying to say in something as simple as words? “If you ever need help with Math or History or anything, you can come to me. I’m– well, I’m good at Math and History, yeah, and I’m good at science, too, and I’m a little less good at Spanish and English, but I—”

“Willow?” Buffy says, wrapping her arm around Willow and putting her hand on Willow’s shoulder. 

Willow gulps. “Yeah?”

“Thank you,” Buffy says. “For– you know.”

“Yeah,” Willow says. “Yeah, I do.”

They lapse into silence again. It’s nice to exist in the quiet with a friend. Willow thinks it’s probably the most comforting thing in the world. Xander’s talkative, and so is she when she gets started, but the moments that the two of them spend together in pleasant silence are some of the best Willow’s had, and this is the same. Every cell in her body is attuned to Buffy’s hair tickling her neck, Buffy’s fingers against her skin, Buffy’s presence next to hers. She doesn’t have to worry about anything other than existing alongside her.

Willow wants so badly to tell Buffy she loves her, but she doesn’t, because there’s no real reason to, and that’s probably a little weird to say with no preamble. Still, she’s hopeful that Buffy can feel it thrumming under Willow’s skin, can feel it in the air between them. She’s hopeful that Buffy never, ever forgets it.

The silence is shattered by the sounds of clatter downstairs, which means Xander’s returned. Buffy jumps like she’s been burned, and Willow stifles a laugh.

“He’s… a wreck,” she says. 

“It’s nice, though,” Buffy counters. “I mean, back in L.A. all the boys were so… ugh, I don’t know. Phony.”

“I feel ya, Holden,” Willow says, and then says, “Nevermind,” because Buffy very clearly does not understand her reference. 

“I just mean it’s refreshing to have people who are honest.”

“That’s a real sweet way of saying we’re kinda losers,” Willow laughs.

Buffy makes a noise of protest and scoots closer to Willow, taking Willow’s hands and their bitten nails and their messy cuticles into her own upsettingly smooth (shouldn’t they be calloused? Damn Slayer healing) hands and looks Willow dead in the eye. And Willow’s not super great with eye contact all the time, but she tries her best to hold it, because Buffy’s eyes are really very pretty, and Buffy seems really very serious. 

“No, I’m for real,” Buffy insists. “You—well, both of you, Xander too, but especially you—are so—”

Willow never finds out what she’s ‘so’, because it’s at that moment that Xander throws the door open with one hand, juggling bags of jelly donuts with the other, causing Buffy to drop Willow’s hands with the speed of a Slayer, and for one brief moment, Willow thinks so sweetly about violent murder. It’s a very brief moment, though, because he’s got _donuts_ , and it’s impossible to stay mad at donuts.

“Gimme gimme,” she says, holding out her hands.

“What, no _thank you, Xander, most wonderful man, most fantastic boy, for running our errands, for fueling our fragile, helpless, non-driver’s-license-having-selves, for_ —”

“I will judo flip you faster than you can say _toxic masculinity_ ,” Buffy threatens, and when she turns around to face Willow again, Xander mouths _kinda hot_ to Willow over Buffy’s back. 

Which, okay, objectively speaking? He’s probably not wrong.

“Thank you, Xander,” Willow obliges. 

“No problem, my darling Willow.” He tosses her a bag of jelly donuts, and thankfully none of them spill out as she fumbles to catch it.

“Thanks, Xander,” Buffy echoes.

“No problem at _all_ , my darling Buffy! So, did you guys finish the movie?”

“Nope,” Willow says, popping the ‘p’. “We paused it to wait for you to get back.”

“Oh,” Xander says, looking oddly overcome. “That’s, uh. You didn’t need to do that for me.”

“It’s tradition!” Willow says, because it is. “There’s no way in hell I’m breaking tradition, especially not one as important as this.”

“I mean, you brought me in,” Buffy pipes up. 

“That’s different, though,” Willow tells her. “We’re incorporating you into our tradition. We’re not taking away from it; we’re adding to it. Watching the movie without Xander would have been ruining it for him. But having you come watch it with us just makes it a little different, a little better.”

“Hear, hear,” Xander choruses. “Buf, you’re a delight.”

“That you are,” Willow agrees.

Buffy shakes her head in what seems like disbelief, which is a bit ridiculous in Willow’s humble opinion, because she really can’t imagine a Buffy Summers that doesn’t know how fucking brilliant and lovable she is. “Thank you,” Buffy says shakily, and Willow really hopes she’s not about to cry, because Willow is not very good with crying people.

She doesn’t, thankfully. She looks up with a fire in her eyes that causes Willow’s heart to skip a beat or maybe three, and she says, “You guys are– you guys are really great.”

“Aw, shucks,” Xander says, flashing her a lopsided grin. 

“Says you,” Willow says.

Buffy claps her hands together, loud, and tears a bite out of her donut with her teeth. “Okay,” she says. “Well. Should we get back to the movie, and then presents after that?”

"Sounds good," Willow says.

Xander throws himself back onto the bed, which creaks under his sudden weight. He sits up and throws an arm around Buffy and an arm around Willow and pulls them in close, close enough that Willow can feel that heart of his, beating as strong as it always does. “Happy holidays, you two.”

“Happy holidays,” Willow echoes. And the remote’s within reach, and it would be the easiest thing in the world for her to press play, and she’s going to in a minute. But for now, she takes a second to just sit and breathe, to hear Xander’s heartbeat and Buffy’s laugh, and to know that she can exist in this near-silence with them, broken only by the sounds that prove that they’re alive.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! my buffy jewish headcanon is less a real headcanon and more sarah michelle gellar is jewish and i'm jewish so i want buffy to be jewish too. also this is like not at all in the fic except for one blink and you'll miss it and even then you'll probably miss it if you're not trans yourself line, but trans xander is my guilty pleasure headcanon. im trans. we dont need to talk about it. Whatever. and then a LOT more blatantly in this imo is my willow nonbinarification beam. she is nOT cis i know this for a FACT. buffy is their token cis friend. its okay tho cuz buffys cute <3
> 
> happy holidays to anyone and everyone reading this regardless of what you celebrate, and if you don't celebrate anything/don't have any holidays at this time of year, happy winter! hope you get some snow! :]
> 
> if you wanna talk more about buffy or jews or anything else with me, come find me @ kickdshins on twitter :p and as always kudos and comments are greatly appreciated


End file.
